In the morning, after the prisoners had gone to their tasks, a guard came and took me to a room in another part of the building where we found the prison physician waiting. He examined me, pronounced me fit, and told me to take off my shirt. The room was bare, except for a bench along one wall, and an arrangement in the center of the room that resembled a photographer’s tripod, only it was higher and stronger. Its three legs were secured to the floor.

A short, thick man in uniform, with a bristly brown beard and cold blue eyes, came in with a strap very much like a barber’s strop, except it was longer and heavier and had a different handhold. He sat on the bench, eyeing me speculatively. The deputy warden now appeared and gave an order. The physician sat down beside the man with the strap. Two guards led me to the triangle. My wrists were strapped to the top of the tripod where the three pieces joined and my ankles lashed to the tripod’s legs, leaving me with my arms up in the air and my legs far apart, helpless as any sheep in the shambles.